


veni, vino, venetia

by 105NorthTower



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Post-Troubled Blood, The Ritz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29680206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/105NorthTower/pseuds/105NorthTower
Summary: It was (mildly) suggested to me I write The Ritz and I'm easily led. 😱Rating might change. I might leave the country. I've already burnt the pizza distracted by nerves. Here we go ...
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 61
Kudos: 74





	1. Venetia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KatieStarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatieStarling/gifts), [Acciohappy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acciohappy/gifts).



The closer Robin Ellacott got to the blue canopy of The Ritz Hotel, the more nervous she became. 

Stepping out of Liberty with her purple bag in one hand and the other resting lightly on Strike's arm, she had felt bright and vivid, as if the golden gleam of the evening could be partly attributed to her birthday mood.

They had sauntered (it was the only word that described their lingering pace) through Soho and towards Green Park, enjoying the gradual release from the press of the thickest crowds and the comfortable lengthening of their strides. Eventually, Strike's became too long for Robin to match and she had to take three steps for every two of his, but they were moving in such an unhurried way that what might have been an annoyance was merely an arithmetic conundrum. 

When their steps became too mismatched, she'd reluctantly slipped her right hand from its resting place on the soft sleeve of his jacket, and allowed it to swing by her side. Glancing away to the left as she released him (so as to appear not to notice any change) she was surprised when he slowed, disappeared for a moment behind her, and reappeared in the spot she was pretending held her attention. He slipped the ropes of the Liberty bag from her fingers and drew the hand he had now freed onto his other sleeve, so that they were almost a mirror image of what they'd been before, save for the flash of purple now swinging by Strike's side.

"Oh. Thanks, Strike."

it was an unexpected gesture, charming her by its contrast with Strike's usual restrained manner, his avoidance of physical contact and his rejection of the importance of gift-wrapping.

Their journey had been conducted in near silence, at first because the streets of Soho were too busy to allow much conversation, and then because they seemed both to enjoy the hum of traffic and the sight of the gilt applied to every window around them by the rays of the declining sun.

But now, their destination was close, and they couldn't sit and drink a bottle of champagne with nothing to say. Robin felt that their quietness, so effortless and full of comfort until now, was becoming crystalline. She should break it, before it shattered and spattered them both in awkwardness. However, the moment she convinced herself that it was necessary to speak, all suitable topics of conversation seemed to fly from her mind.

Why was she such a mess? She was merely heading for a drink with her best friend. If they'd been going to The Tottenham after work ...

Suddenly, it dawned on her. The gift. The care she'd taken over getting ready. Their intended destination. Strike's smartness and the appearance of never before suspected aftershave. The prolonging of the experience of shopping for a gift by adding another destination, another activity. Their achingly slow progress through town. 

The perfect sense memory of stubble brushing her mouth.

This didn't feel like a drink with a best friend. It felt like the beginning of intimacy.


	2. vino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My writing hour is up, and so I must post. And this is what I'm posting, may God forgive me and my transparent Polworthian liking for a "good exit line".

Perfunctory chit chat about the décor, disposal of their coats, finding a space in the Rivoli Bar and ordering drinks got Robin through until they were sat, a respectable foot apart, on a deep blue velvet sofa, each holding a flute of the best champagne she'd ever tasted. 

Now, talk had to happen. With a reticence she'd never experienced in Strike's company before, she scanned for suitable topics and found herself rejecting each one.

"What did Shaggable You smell like?"

_No._

"You look great in that shirt."

_Nope._

"How do I look?"

_Worse._

"What's your star sign?"

_Definitely not._

The problem is, she thought, is we know each other too well for first date stuff. We know each other better than people who've ...

"Cheers!" Strike leaned closer and tilted his glass towards hers.

_Why didn't I think of that?_

"Cheers!" She touched her glass to his and took a large gulp of wine.

"How's 30 going so far?"

"Honestly, it's going a lot better than I expected."

"Because you look a bit ... thoughtful."

"Sorry." Robin stroked the velvet alley between them with her fingertips. "I'm just transferring this sofa to my dream home."

"Your what?"

"My dream home. My imaginary London address that I'll never own. Don't you have one?"

"Well ..."

"I thought everyone had one."

"Tell me about yours. Where is it?"

"It's in an imaginary part of town, close to the office, all my favourite shops, the National Gallery, the Royal Parks and the railway station."

"Which one?"

"All of them."

"OK. What does it look like? I'm imagining mock Tudor."

"Strike!" She swatted his arm.

"Just kidding" He stopped her hand with his and then unaccountably forgot to let go of it. "Georgian? Columns and a portico?"

"No! It's an Art Deco sugar cube gem, perfect as the day it was built. White, with wide smokey windows, a flat roof, not a single curve in sight."

"Garden?"

"Gardens. But the staff deal with those. I go out with some secateurs and lop off the wrong twig every once in a while, but the gardener tells me off."

"Tell me about the gardener. Male or female?"

"He's male. About 40. Big, rough hands."

"Right, leave the bloody gardener alone, he's working. Come back to the house."

"Can't yet, got to give the horse some sugar."

"There's a horse. Obviously, there is. What colour?"

She twisted to face him, with a look of amusement.

"Brown."

"Liar."

"A chestnut mare. 15 hands. Only lets me sit on her."

He turned towards her, and slid his arm along the tufted sofa back.

"She's got taste."

A pleasurable shiver grew between Robin's shoulder blades. "Back to the house. There's a large, jet back front door with a high gloss, and it opens to a hallway with white walls and a black and white geometric design on the floor."

"It's very black and white."

"But that emphasises the splashes of colour. Which is why I need this sofa. Also the piano needs a counterpoint."

"There's a piano? You play?"

"No, but there's staff."

"Not more staff?"

"The pianist!"

"What's she like?"

"It's a he, actually. About 40, stubble, forgets to shave because of artistic distraction from mundanities. I think he and the gardener must be related. I've never asked."

"Suits you not to know?" The hand that was still on the back of the sofa found her shoulder and traced a loop down to her shoulder blade and back again. The shiver leapt across her back to meet it. 

She seemed to have missed a few breaths and so took a big one and another sip of champagne. "Correct. It's really none of my business. There's a staircase that begins in stone with metal balusters in a classic fan design. Leads to the master bedroom ... I redesign that a lot but it has quite a bit of coral and pearl at the moment. The en suite is always a symphony of Italian marble."

"Anything else?"

She moved the hand that he'd been holding against the velvet seat and stroked the buttons fastening the cuff of his shirt. "Nothing finalised."

"So ..." his voice was low and amused, and chased the shiver down her spine, "Your house has an entrance hall with a piano, a staircase and a bedroom, but everything else is a bit hazy? You're the psychologist, Ellacott ..."

"Hmm. Well, it means dating is hard ... but I think I'm getting there."

"Oh, no."

_Not exactly the response I was anticipating._

Strike's gaze was drawn to a couple entering the Rivoli Bar. 

It was Charlotte and Jago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, Robin's impossible dream house is obv mine, except mine has staff who are all Tom Hardy and I have outbuildings full of classic American convertibles that are just for sitting in NOT FOR DRIVING instead of a horse.


	3. pluribus vinum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This should have been part of vino, but time's against me.
> 
> It's so much worse than you think. Isn't it always?

Any hope Robin had that she and Strike would remain unseen was soon dashed. Charlotte's apparently laconic gaze swept the room expertly and fixed on them for a brief few seconds, before moving back to her companion. She'd seen them all right.

Robin withdrew her hand from exploring Strike's sleeve placket and folded both hands in her lap. She glanced at Strike, and saw he was frowning at his champagne, although she had the strong impression his eyes had been on her only moments before. 

All the reasons why a relationship between them was a bad idea, came tumbling out of the dark recess in her mind where she'd lately shoved them, out of the way, bored of their constant joyless chirruping. Here, in plain, unavoidable sight, was reason number one: Cormoran Strike was still not free of the relationship he'd ended four years ago. Charlotte may not be with him, she might be married to someone else, he might have deleted her number, but when she was in the room he wasn't indifferent any more.

Robin swirled the last of the champagne around her glass and necked it, then beckoned to a passing waiter. He took the glass from her and waited to hear what she had to say.

"Can I have a fresh glass, please? Lipstick. And we'll need another bottle."

She tossed Strike a defiant glance and rested her head against the back of the sofa, studying the ornate ceiling with its gilt and stucco and mirrors, and enjoying the warmth his arm had left behind.

A familiar hairline caught her attention, bounced to her from a piece of looking glass directly above her head.

"Shit."

"What is it?" Strike asked.

Ignoring him, Robin turned to look over her left shoulder, twisting her waist and raising her bent leg onto the sofa to look further. It caused the wrapover front of her clinging blue dress to gape and meant she flashed a good length of thigh, as well as touching her knee to Strike's leg, but she was past caring about that. Still frustrated by her restricted view, she rose to kneel on the seat and look over the back. 

_Hell fire._

Waiting at the restaurant exit was Matthew Cunliffe. 

A moment later, Mrs Matthew Cunliffe joined him, and they linked arms and set off along a line that would take them within three feet of Robin's sofa.


	4. veni (and also vidi and vici)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte meets her match.

"Charlotte."

Robin turned at the sound of Strike's voice, and slid off the velvet sofa with as much dignity as she could muster. Charlotte Campbell Ross walked over to their table, leading her husband who was watching with obvious amusement. They had the air of two people who find they've bet on different horses in the same race.

"Cormoran, darling! What is this ..." Charlotte laid insulting emphasis on the 'this' and gave Robin a momentary glance, "... a works outing?"

Robin barely had a chance to decide not to react before Ross joined them.

"Now, Char," he drawled, "Play nice!"

Turning towards Robin, he continued, "Let me apologise for this intrusion. You must be Ms Ellacott." He offered her his hand, which she took more from habit than inclination, then allowed his gaze to glide down to her feet and back up again.

"V'heard many accounts of your qualities, Ms Ellacott, but I must say ..." he nodded at Charlotte, "None of them quite captured your ... form."

_Will hump anything that moves,_ Robin thought. _I've met dogs with more restraint. You're cocking your leg at the wrong tree, mister._

Ross was still holding her hand when Robin was distracted by Matthew and Sarah arriving beside her. Ross seemed to notice her attention being elsewhere, because he took the opportunity to lift her hand to his mouth and plant a kiss on her knuckles.

Matt's look of outrage was comical. 

"Who's he, then?"

It took every ounce of self-control Robin possessed, but she didn't snatch her hand away. If this gruesome bunch were going to ruin her birthday drink with Strike, she was going to have her fun.

"Hello, Matt," she said, softy, and then looked back to Ross, who winked at her, and ran the tip of his tongue up the proximal phalanx of her ring finger.

_You're revolting,_ thought Robin, _but you catch on fast._

"Finished with Strike, have you?" Matt had gone a deep shade of pink and his voice had gone up an octave. "What, onwards and upwards, is it?"

Robin slipped her hand free and raised an eyebrow at Ross' exaggerated moue of disappointment. She passed Strike without a look or a word, and rounded the sofa. Clasping Sarah firmly by her shoulders, she adopted as sincere a tone as she could manage while air-kissing either side of her frowning face.

"Sarah, it's so lovely to see you. I haven't yet had the chance to say, 'Congratulations on being Mrs Cunliffe!' What is it, six months? You must still feel like you're honeymooners."

Ross' attention snapped from Robin to Sarah.

"Won't you," he smiled like The Rivoli was his own personal seraglio, "introduce us?"

Charlotte chimed in. "Jago, we'll lose our table, darling."

"Plenty of time, Char! We're meeting new people."

Robin smiled innocently at Charlotte, then adopted a voice that she imagined The Honourable Jago Ross would prize in a personal assistant.

"Jago, this is Mrs Sarah Cunliffe and her husband, Mr Matthew Cunliffe. Sarah is a leading light in fine art, aren't you, Sarah? Christie's knew what they were about when they head-hunted her. Sold Lethal White for 31 mill not so long ago, and Gimcrack for 22 mill shortly before that." She paused with a small frown as if trying to remember, "And Matthew is an accountant."

Matt looked as if steam would very shortly issue from his ears.

"Sarah, Matthew, this is Charlotte Campbell Ross and her husband, The Honourable Jago Ross." She leaned towards Sarah and whispered loudly close to her ear, "Heir to the Viscountcy of Croy."

It had exactly the effect she imagined it would. Sarah's face lightened and she smiled at Jago. He needed no second invitation. Stepping around the sofa and Matthew, he launched into a breathless description of a painting he was trying to trace.

"By Xu Beihong? I saw it in Beijing in '99 and fell in love, it was quite literally love at first sight. Should've snapped it up then ... it would have cost a mere hundred thou, but I was a fool, a raw young fool ... you would have recognised it for what it was, Mrs Cunliffe, I am sure you would ..."

"Please," Sarah took the arm that Ross was offering, "Do call me Sarah."

They wandered off towards the restaurant.

Matt looked perplexed.

"We've already eaten."

Robin winked at Charlotte, who was looking at her with newfound respect. Charlotte took Matt's arm and led him away, after his wife. 

"Don't worry, Matthew. Food is the very last thing on his mind."

***

Strike looked bewildered, and sat down again. 

"What just happened?"

The waiter reappeared with a new bottle and two fresh glasses.

Robin thanked him and dropped next to Strike. She poured the champagne and relaxed back into the blue velvet.

"There was a problem. I dealt with it."

Strike nodded. "Right."

"Strike," Robin said tentatively, "when you first saw Charlotte tonight?"

"Yeah."

"You sort of looked ... triggered."

Strike stretched his arms up and dropped them onto the back of the sofa, one landing behind her shoulders. "I was just worried about what she was going to say to you. She's quite ... jealous of you "

Robin leaned forward to take a sip from her glass and replaced it on the table. When she leaned back, Strike seemed to have shifted slightly; she relaxed into the bend of his arm and, unbalanced, put a hand on Strike's chest to steady herself.

"Now,' Strike murmured, "seem to recall we were discussing dating "

His lips grazed her forehead and her fingers seeped between the buttons on his shirt to stroke his chest hair.

"Mmm ... Strike?"

She leaned her head back on his arm and smiled as his mouth fell towards hers, drawn by some force of nature.

"Hmm?"

"Shall we go home and give her something to be jealous about?"

THE END


End file.
